The Fading Years
by understarryskies
Summary: Middle Earth is dying and together it's oldest Kings and Queens but Gandalf knows there is a future. Warning: AU, MC death. I'm sorry if you don't like it.


Warning: AU, Main Character death. I'm sorry for not mentioning it before and I hope you don't hate it.

The sun's rays danced on the clean, white splashed wall and the birds called to each other from the trees that stood outside the window. The curtains danced gently in the slight wind. The blue sky was empty of clouds except for the smallest cotton-balls high above Middle Earth. However, despite nature's best attempts, the room was not a happy place.

The sun's rays were only the slightest shimmer that had managed to slink past the dark curtains. The birds that called to one another were so far away they almost went unheard. The wind that blew the curtains was so weak that it did not banish the musty humidity that hung in the room. All the Hobbits, Dwarves, Elves and even the Men that had entered and left that room could smell the heavy stench of sickness and impending death that had settled in thick layers on everything that the room contained.

The four-poster bed that sat in the middle of the small space was surrounded by all manner of creature, each with their heads bowed and their attention on the figure that lay upon it, almost lost in the purple coverings and pillows that provided little comfort for him. He had once been an opposing figure, dressed in the sternest robes and yet with a kindness in his face. Despite the kindness he carried in his heart, one look from his dark eyes and his will would be done. He used to answer to no one but Galadriel herself.

Now he was a shadow of his former self. His hands, that had not left their place on the purple overthrow in days, were almost skeletal as was most of his body. His eyes had lightened until they were grey and completely void of life. His remaining hair was as grey as his eyes and the crown that had once rested on his head was long retired. His withered lips barely moved when, if, he spoke and his audience had to lean in to make out his words.

Lord Elrond was dying.

Arwen stared down at her Ada's frail frame and wondered yet again how he could be dying. None of the healers could explain it though they believed that Lord Elrond knew. To her distress she found that she could not care, all she wanted was for her father to continue to live. They had so much to do, so much to talk about, now that the ring had been destroyed. She thought that her life would begin to pull her into happiness again but instead she had returned to the deepest sorrow.

It was not fair, none of it was. It was not fair that she should live on but her father die. It was not fair that she was made to endure so much pain to become happy again and then to have that happiness ripped from her. It was not fair that her son would not have a grandfather to love and dote upon him.

The gentle hand of her love rested on her shoulder and she turned her tear-stained face to Aragon's weary one.

"Gandalf is here," he whispered softly to her. "We need to give them some time alone now." She nodded numbly and kissed her Ada's cold cheek before following Aragon out of the room. The other guests were also leaving the chamber until only Glorfindel remained, standing beside his old friend.

"Elrond," even though his words were quiet, they carried to the recently departed mourners. "Gandalf has arrived to speak with you." Elrond's lips moved in a reply that Glorfindel leaned forward to hear. He mumbled something that sounded agreeable then looked up at the door and nodded. Gandalf walked into the room, his white robes shrouded his body, hiding that he too was aging close to death. In his hand he gripped his signature staff, source of his power. His wizened face gave away nothing of his emotions as he nodded to Glorfindel. The powerful elf dipped his golden head to the White Wizard and left. The door shut behind him like the door to a tomb.

"Lord Elrond," Gandalf greeted his old ally as he made his way to the bedside. "This war has not been kind to you or me, nor the world we reside in; however, I fear that you are leaving us the quickest." The Elven King attempted to speak but it only came out as a croak. "Be still my friend." Gandalf gently rested the head of his staff on the chest of the old elf. "I cannot save you but I can ease your pain and give you a short while to speak without this illness that ails you." A soft light flared from the stone that was pressed against Elrond's chest and it flooded forth, enveloping his body. He felt energy fill his bones though it was not much.

"Gandalf," his voice was shaky but there was a warmth in it that had been absent before. "It is a blessing to see you again. I can see that you speak the truth about the effects of the war. Others may not see your injuries for they are not physical but I can see it in your eyes. You are dying and you know it, though you are right that I will leave first.

"What is happening to us Gandalf? What is happening to the land? So few birds call to each other and even then their conversations are empty of joy. The trees and the plants are dying. I hear water but it no longer chuckles and bubbles. It simply flows thinly. Middle Earth is suffering! My people are suffering! How can we deserve this pain? Why do we suffer, Gandalf?!" Elrond angrily wiped away the tears that had escaped his eyes during his imploring speech as he waited for an answer that he almost did not want to hear.

"You are right, Middle Earth is dying and its people are dying, dear friend," Gandalf's eyes betrayed his discomfort at talking of such matters on the Elven King's deathbed. "It seems that we have taken too long to destroy The Ring. It should have been thrown into the fires of Mordor long ago, before The Ring spent too long in the world of Middle Earth. In the time that it has been among us it has tied itself to the world. Somehow part of Middle Earth bonded with The Ring, a small part, but a part nonetheless. Middle Earth is dying because we destroyed The Ring."

Elrond sighed heavily and fell back further into the comfort around him, his grey eyes closed. Gandalf felt sorrow paw at his heart as he saw how exhausted and defeated the Elven King was.

"I have lived for 6,ooo years, Gandalf," the Elf's voice had regained its frailty. "I have lived through more than most will in their life-time. I was there the day that the strength of men seemed lost forever. I was there the day that the strength of men returned. I have seen the life and death of kings. I have lived through the war of the ring and I have seen the salvation of Middle Earth. Now I am watching its destruction once more though thankfully I will not see the end.

"The undying lands are calling to me, I hear the whispers of those long dead in my dreams. They are calling to me from across the sea. I will go to them very soon but first you must tell me, can Middle Earth be saved?" Gandalf recalled the words that Galadriel had spoken to him as Celeborn, Frodo and she had made the same journey as Elrond was making shortly after the destruction of the Ring.

"'The people of Middle Earth are like flowers in a meadow. Some of the flowers will survive through all the four seasons and continue to bring beauty to the world. Eventually these flowers grow old, wither and die. Sometimes a horse will run through the field, trampling the flowers and for a while it will seem that the meadow will be destroyed. Then the oldest flowers will die for no reason and they will float away to the undying lands. In their place new flowers will bloom and slowly they will rebuild the meadow.'

"You, I and the oldest everywhere are dying, Elrond. We are the flowers that are withering in the field but as we die, new creatures will take our place. As the old waters are swept away the new rains will bring life again. As the old plants fade to nothing, new ones will grow in their place. This is Middle Earth's way of healing the part of her that The Ring stole from us. We will not see the new Middle Earth but our children and their children will." A single tear leaked from under Elrond's closed lids and his hand reached out blindly, gripping Gandalf's arm.

"Thank you, my dear friend," his voice shook for a moment then steadied again. "You have given me the hope that I so dearly needed. May Valar smile on you in the time that is left in your life." His eyes opened and fixed themselves on the wooden door that was just beyond the foot of his bed. "Please, let me see my children again, all of them." Gandalf nodded, understanding what Elrond meant. "But Gandalf, please do not leave me yet." The White Wizard nodded again, managing a smile.

The dying elf lay in his glorious bed and waited, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. He was remembering the years that had passed by, the battles that had been fought, the warriors that he had fought with and the tears that he had shed. He remembered the suffering and the pain, the betrayal that Isildur committed and the agony of the war of The Ring. Then he remembered his days as a child, so long ago, when he would run around, free as the birds in the sky. He remembered Celebrían and the children that she had gifted to him.

His memories slowly faded to black and his eyes drifted shut. He could hear voices calling to him. Arwen, her soft voice shattered with distress. Elladan and Elrohir cried his name in unison and the rough voice of Aragon sounded by his ear. He wanted to speak to them and tell them that they were going to be all right and that they would live to see the times when Middle Earth thrived in peace again. He wanted to tell them that he loved them, but it was time for him to leave now. Most of all, he wanted to tell them that he would see them again when their time was up.

But he couldn't. His strength faded as he tried to speak. His lips moved but no sound came out. He felt his spirit leave his body and float upwards into the sky. He felt freedom enter his mind. A smile flickered across his lips and his last breath left his body. In his last second Lord Elrond felt a contentment fall upon him and for the first time in 6,ooo years he felt peace settle over him.

Outside the room that smelt of death, a small bird perched on the very topmost branch of a willow tree. She opened her mouth and sung a song so sweet it brought tears to the already wet eyes of the mourners in Rivendell. It was a song of sorrow, of the passing of a life but underneath it laid the layers of softest joy for the new chicks that waited in the nest for her return. The song told of the golden flowers that grew in the woods and of the fresh, crisp water that was flowing to them from the mountains. Last of all she told of the brilliant shades of green that were starting to slowly appear on the outskirts of Middle Earth.

Middle Earth was healing.


End file.
